


One-Two Beat, Six-Eight Rhythm

by rxinventlove



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Blackfrost - Freeform, Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 00:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15182294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxinventlove/pseuds/rxinventlove
Summary: She still swears there's fire under his cold; like the one-two beat of his heart.





	One-Two Beat, Six-Eight Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> so no names are actually mentioned in the writing, but it was written as loki & natasha regardless

His heart is a one-two beat under her ear; grounding in all the ways she needs. His breath rises and falls like waves against her body and his hands wander down her spine, following the curve down around to her hips.

Something thrums in her bones, a calling for more, a need to touch what she can't have. Reaching out to rest her hand on his halts his movements, the affect is his breath coming in shallow, lifting her up like a balloon when he tangles their fingers together.

Nothing comes close to this, they're like an infinity; never ending and never enough. They're cold to the touch, frostbitten lovers--warm hearts beating out of dead chests. They're like being drunk off abstract thought, misunderstandings coated with half-truths and white lies. A never ending circle of _needneedwant_ and waiting for the stars to take them away, accept them like children of the night.

His heart is a symphony of string instruments singing into oblivion at a six-eight rhythm. He feels like snow on her skin, she thinks maybe there's fire under his ice. He's a contradiction, an oxymoron bigger than she can wrap her head around; but nothing comes close to how much she doesn't care. He feels like trying to lift a ton of feathers. He feels like _out with the old, in with the new_. He makes her want to pirouette down the halls and pas de deux with him until the sun explodes and the world stops spinning. He is the fear of falling that makes it easier to jump.

He is ballet and Van Gough paintings and his hands are soft on her face, like stardust wrapped in silk, gentle like fluffy watercolour clouds at sunrise. He knows the dips of her body and the curves of her skin like the stars know the black-blue of the night sky. He holds her in all the ways she needs, suffocating and almost on the edge of _toomuch_. It's intoxicating, tastes like red wine in the summer. He feels like the burn of bourbon she never knew she liked.

Their kisses sting like stepping out into a blizzard; he feels like making snow angels at two in the morning. The flash of frost-cold hands creep down her hips, a soft reminder that he's here, right where she needs him. It's like taking an ice bath when she touches his chest, he's all whipcord muscle under snow white skin, like the monster waiting under the cold of frozen rivers. He pulls goose bumps from her skin and leaves her shivering, hands still frostbitten but never bitter.

She still swears there's fire under his cold; like the one-two beat of his heart.


End file.
